End of the Road
by damnitjillkatherine
Summary: Eventually, they have to reach the end of the road. Warning: Character deaths.


**End of the Road  
**Disclaimer: Not mine. Never have been.  
Rating: PG-13.  
Summary: Eventually, they have to reach the end of the road.

* * *

Heading south from Acadia National Park - a place Wilson had always wanted to see but never got around to going to - House says, only half joking, "Hey, we can finally take that big romantic weekend in the Poconos."

Wilson laughs, but his face softens, and he pulls off the interstate at the first sign he sees advertising bed and breakfasts in the mountains. He stops his bike in front of a Victorian-era house that's painted a violent shade of yellow. House pulls off his helmet and makes a gagging noise.

"Really? This place is jaundiced. I don't think it's safe to stay here."

"You want romantic? You're getting the whole nine yards," says Wilson, heading towards the front door.

…

The B&B is practically deserted, but somehow they end up in a lavender-painted room with one king-size bed. House bitches for ten minutes straight, but Wilson reminds him that _he _was the one who said "Yes, dear," when Wilson asked him to grab his wallet out of the saddlebags. What was the owner supposed to think?

They have dinner at a little Italian place across the street. The hostess watches the man with the cane stuff a wallet into his good-looking friend's back pocket and decides to seat them at a secluded booth with a candle flickering on the table. House rolls his eyes, but Wilson smiles at her and says 'thank you'. The hostess watches them out of the corner of her eye throughout their dinner, smiling every time one of them laughs. Cutest couple they've had all week.

After dinner, they swing through a package store before heading back to the B&B. Their lavender room is on the second floor, so they sit on their balcony, drinking beer and watching the sun go down over the mountains. Once it gets dark, they watch the moon come up and the fireflies come out, enjoying the amiable silence, until Wilson yawns and says he's headed for bed. "If you steal the covers, I will strangle you with them," says House as he limps along behind him.

At two in the morning, Wilson wakes up and realizes there's an arm around his waist and a leg thrown over his. "House, you're smothering me," he mumbles.

"Too bad," comes the gruff, half-asleep reply. "My leg doesn't hurt. You're the perfect pillow."

"Made for each other," Wilson chuckles softly.

"Don't get sappy," says House, but Wilson notices that the arm around his waist tightens just a little.

…

They stay four nights at the Poconos B&B. Every morning, Wilson wakes up with a warm diagnostician at his back, bad leg thrown over his own. By the fourth night, House doesn't bother waiting until his friend is asleep before wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close.

"And here I thought you were more of a stealth snuggler," says Wilson, pretending to struggle.

"Shut up," says House. Wilson can feel his lips move against the back of his head. He puts his hand over the one House has slung across his waist.

"What are you going to do, after?" he asks. House twitches his hand, bumping Wilson's off.

"I know you think highly of yourself, Jimmy, but my life does not actually revolve around you."

"All evidence points to the contrary," Wilson says, replacing his hand and lacing their fingers together. "You're technically dead, House."

"I know I am. This conversation is boring. Go to sleep." But Wilson lies awake for another hour, just listening to House breath.

…

Four months after they started their road trip, Wilson starts to weaken. He's no longer able to stay up on his own motorcycle, so he sells it (practically gives it away, to a fresh-faced farm kid in Iowa) and rides with House. He wraps his arms around House's waist, lays his head on his back, and House has never been so careful on a bike in his life.

They manage to stay on the road for another five weeks. They tour Olympic National Park, San Francisco (where everyone gives them the 'Awww' look because Wilson has to hold tight to House's waist to keep himself upright when they walk), and the Grand Canyon. One morning, when Wilson can't make it out of bed, House just asks him, "Where do you want to go?"

"Home," he says.

…

House rents a small moving truck with just enough room for his motorcycle. It takes a wheelchair and three attempts at lifting him out of it to get Wilson into the cab of the truck, but in he gets. As soon as House climbs behind the wheel, the oncologist lays down and pillows his head on his friend's thigh.

"You realize that's my bad leg," says House. Wilson cracks a bloodshot eye.

"M'sorry, does this hurt?"

"Nope," House lies.

They make it to House's place two weeks past the five-month mark. Wilson is still lucid as House wheels him into the apartment, deposits him in the bed, and crawls in behind him. He smiles as the now-familiar weight of House's arm and bad leg settles over him. He musters up the strength to lace their fingers together.

"Thank you," House says quietly, mouth directly behind Wilson's ear.

"S'always such a surprise to hear you say that," he manages. House squeezes his hand.

"And I'm sorry," he adds.

"Now I _know _I'm dying," Wilson's laugh turns into a fit of coughing. House holds his chest tightly until it passes. He breaths steadily for a few minutes, then says, "I don't even know how to thank you for all this."

"I owed you," says House.

"Yeah, I guess you kinda did," Wilson chuckles. House calls him a jerk but never moves away.

…

Wilson holds on for another week. House helps him to the facilities, then brings the facilities to him when Wilson can no longer get up. House is a constant presence, tucked in around him, only leaving to use the bathroom himself and to eat once or twice a day. Wilson tries to scold him for not eating, but it comes out a breathy whisper, and House just puts a finger over Wilson's lips and holds him tighter.

Wilson dies on a Thursday morning. House feels him stop breathing around five o'clock, but he lays in bed, still wrapped around him, until the sun comes up. Then he gets up, limps over to the dresser when his cell phone is resting, and texts Foreman.

'Wilson's gone. My place.'

He puts on real clothes for the first time in a week, slides his wallet into a pocket, and makes his way outside to his bike. He picks the helmet up off the seat and tosses it in a bush. He clips his cane to the side of the motorcycle, revs it up, and heads for the interstate.

House rides all day, going nowhere in particular, stopping only for gas. When night falls, he keeps riding. Around midnight, his eyelids start getting heavy. At two a.m., when he starts awake at the sound of an oncoming semi truck's horn, he smiles.

"Technically dead," he thinks. "The coroners are gonna have a ball with this one."


End file.
